


Old Magic

by SoongTypeDisaster



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Magic, Original Fiction, Short One Shot, Slice of Life, farming, folk magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoongTypeDisaster/pseuds/SoongTypeDisaster
Summary: They say that magic can't cross running water. But don't pay magic any mind. This is just a story about an old man, his farm, and the quiet passing of age.
Kudos: 3





	Old Magic

**Author's Note:**

> _OK but there are myths and legends that say magic can’t cross running water, right? Does it specify that said water has to be aboveground?_
> 
> _Because you know what there is less of in the world today?_
> 
> _Magic._
> 
> _And you know what there is a lot more of in the world today?_
> 
> _Plumbing._

He’d been on the side of that hill for years. Crops always came out a little better than everyone else’s, but nobody paid it any mind. Everyone knew the old man’s land was just in the right spot. Got the best sun and the best of the rain and just enough slope so the plants didn’t drown. He’d been there a while, they figured he was probably one of the first to move in around these parts anyhow.

Years passed, feast or famine, and the old man’s crops still came out just fine every year, no matter what nasty turns the weather took, but nobody paid it any mind. After all, he came down to the village to share with everyone when their own crops failed. Said there was plenty to go around.

He’d been an old man for quite some time by then, but nobody ever seemed to notice. People came and went. The old man was like the mountain itself. Always there. Every so often someone would go up to visit and there were always flowers on the windowsill. Sometimes gifts from the townsfolk. More and more every year. Seemed like he never got rid of any. Strange, how the cut flowers always looked like new. But nobody paid it any mind. Man had a way with plants, that was all.

Time came things started to modernize. The old man’s wife was the one who wanted the plumbing put in, and who was he to say no? She ought to have a little luxury, after all. Put up with him and all his plants taking over the house. Seemed only decent. He had them run the pipes ‘round the long way. Nobody paid it any mind. He didn’t want the pipes to run through his fields, after all. Mess up the drainage, he’d said. Didn’t want to irrigate. Rain always hit his part of the hill just right.

The flowers in the windowsill started to wilt one by one. He didn’t keep so many these days, but there were fresh ones - slightly less fresh than before. He felt a little tired inside the house, but that was alright. Age does that to a person, and after all, he’d been an old man for a very long time.

He looked a little older every year after that, but seemed to revive and energize every time he left the house and went into his fields. Nobody paid it any mind. Man had a passion for farming, after all. Who could blame him?

Years passed and the crops still came, ripe and bountiful as ever, until one day he went home and the old grey cat was standing in the doorway. Used to be black, that cat. Guess she’d gone gray over the years too. The old man followed her inside to look down on his wife, quiet and still on the sofa with her knitting. Not much of a surprise, really. He’d been an old man for a very long time, after all. He put her grave on the far side of the hill where she wouldn’t be disturbed. Honored and cherished. Then he went back inside, settled into an old rocking chair, and the cat soon followed, gnarled hands obligingly scratching about her ears.

He supposed he could have had the plumbing ripped out. It had been her idea anyway, not his. But she’d gotten him used to having running water in the house. Convenient-like. Gotten him used to a lot of things.

Eventually the crops stopped growing. First the townsfolk had ever seen it happen. Now that got everyone in a ruffle. Sent some folk up to check on the old house on the hill. Boy was the brave one. Barged his way inside and found the old man there with his cat. Both could have been sleeping, were it not for the still and the cold. But nobody paid it any mind. He had, after all, been an old man for a very long time.

Funny thing about the crops though. They never grew in quite the same after that.

**Author's Note:**

> This all started because of a Tumblr post, where I got to thinking about depictions of magic in popular media. Then somebody mentioned farming and, well... this happened.


End file.
